Kitty Wade tells me that you are having trouble with some company which is taking water that you need for your ranch. I hope it isn't serious trouble, though she hinted as much. Do you care to tell me about it?
Kitty Wade tells me that you are having trouble with some company which is taking water that you need for your ranch. I hope it isn't serious trouble, though she hinted as much. Do you care to tell me about it?
Casey Dunne sat for some minutes, the check and letter across his knees, while he gazed unblinkingly through the hot sunshine. It was some time since he had given Clyde Burnaby more than an occasional thought; his immediate affairs had been too pressing. Now the vision of her, as he had seen her last, rose before his eyes, and he found it a pleasant recollection. He, whose life since childhood had been passed in the outposts and beyond them, treasured the memories of the few occasions when chance had permitted him to sit with his own kind, to talk to them, to live as he would have lived had not fate forced him to hoe his own row, and chosen for him a row in the new lands.
Of the women he had met in these rare incursions he could recall none who pleased him as well as Clyde Burnaby. Her interest in his affairs pleased him also. He recalled her as she had sat across the aisle in the Pullman, her absolute frigidity to the advances of the would-be Lothario, her haughty stare when she had suspected him of like intent, her perfect composure during the holdup. Little things like that showed the stuff a girl was made of. Nothing foolish or nervous or hysterical about her. And then, subsequently, when he had met her on her own ground, she had endeavoured to put him at his ease. Funny that, but he appreciated it, nevertheless. And she could talk. She didn't giggle and ask inane questions. Nor did she treat him as some sort of a natural curiosity, who might be expected to do something shocking but entertaining at any moment. She was sensible as—well—as sensible as Sheila McCrae herself.
And that, Casey reflected, was by way of being a high compliment; for Sheila had more sense than most men. He would take her opinion on any subject as well worth consideration. She and Clyde Burnaby were two young women very much above the ordinary run—in his opinion, at least.
Idly he wondered if chance would ever bring them together. Unlikely. Because he had nothing else to do at the moment, he amused himself by a process of transposition, of transmigration. He imagined Clyde Burnaby in Sheila's place, riding Beaver Boy over the brown swells, along the narrow trails and abrupt rises of the foothills, raising several hundred chickens, helping with the housework, the mending—all the daily feminine chores that fell to the lot of a rancher's womenkind. Would she be as good a friend to him as Sheila had been? And he fancied Sheila in her place—tailor-mades and evening gowns instead of riding skirts, Paris instead of pony hats, with nothing in particular to do but have a good time and spend money. Make good? Of course she would. She was clean-cut, thoroughbred, smart as a whip. Perhaps she wasn't quite as good-looking as Miss Burnaby; but, after all, that was largely a matter of taste. She was a different style.
He looked at the check lying on his knee, and laughed at the idea of interest on ten dollars. He had forgotten all about that conceit, but she had not. He would frame the check—yes, that was what he would do. In time there would be quite a bunch of them—that is, if she remembered to send them. Well, anyway, he would have to acknowledge it, and he might as well do it at once.
He went indoors and began to write. He had intended but a brief note, but in construction it lengthened. With him letter writing was never an effort. He wrote as easily as he talked, colloquially, without any attempt at style or set phrase. Soon he found himself tersely describing the water situation, forecasting the probabilities. As these were not too cheering, he frowned and added an optimistic sentence or two for general effect. He concluded with a hope that she would some time honour his country with a visit, when his ranch and all it contained—including its owner—would be entirely at her service.
On his way to post the letter he passed Glass, still struggling with his own composition. That poor devil! A perfect type of incompetent. He was too slow and timid for the West—too old to learn the lessons of self-reliance and adaptability of a new land. However, that was his own affair. If he would work he could make a living, and that was all that he or those like him could make anywhere.
Dunne strolled down to the station to mail his letter in the box there; and, as he turned the corner of the building, he came full upon Farwell and another burly individual in conversation with Quilty, the station agent.
"Tell them to start a tracer from the other end after those car numbers," Farwell was commanding; "and you start one from here. I've got to have them right away; work's at a standstill. Those cursed fatheads in the freight department don't know enough to shovel ballast. Get after them with a sharp stick."
"I'll do me best for ye," Quilty promised; "but freight on this line comes whin ut comes."
"It will come when I want it, or somebody will lose a job," said Farwell. "I'm not the ordinary consignee, and you can tell them that, too."
"I'll do that same," said Quilty; "but I misdoubt if a cyar wheel turns the faster for ut. I mind back in eighty-five—or maybe 'twas eighty-three ut was—whin O'Brien—'Flapjack' O'Brien they called him then, though he's climbed high enough since—well, whin O'Brien was a plain, iveryday, thievin' conthractor, and a dom bad wan at that, he had a nephew named Burke that married a Finnegan—or maybe ut was Finucane—whose father pulled ould Sivinty-six, a wood-burnin' monsthrosity iv an ingin' that be th' grace iv God an' a full sand box might be good for a 3-per-cent grade anny dry day in summer but a Friday. Annyways, as I started to tell ye, Danny Powers fired for Finnegan or Finucane, whichever ut was, and him and this Burke——"
But Farwell cursed Powers and Burke. "You burn the wires getting those cars for me!" he ordered. "What the devil do I care for all those construction-days micks? You talk too much. Get busy!" With which he turned and walked away with his companion.
"Pleasant gentleman, Corney!" Casey ventured.
The little station agent winked. "Th' black dog is on him sure enough," he observed. "Since his dam was blowed up, he has th' civil word for nobody. Listen, now, Casey. Somebody will pay for that night's work."
"I don't quite get you, Corney."
"Oh, divil th' fear iv yez not gettin' me. I'm not speakin' now in me official capacity; for praise God this dam is outside th' duties iv me jurisdiction. I'm tellin' ye as a friend."
"I know, Corney; but tell me a little plainer."
"Plainer is ut? Yez are a man grown. Do yez think yez can crim'nally an' wid conthributory vi'lence aforethought dynymite me employers' property, an' no comeback at all? Have sinse!"
"Hold on," said Casey. "Go slow, Corney." But Mr. Quilty dismissed this preliminary objection with a wave of his hand.
"Thim's figgers iv speech. I assume yez are innocent until yez are caught. Faix, it's not me'd give th' hot tip iv a warnin' to a crim'nal. But whisper now! Th' comp'ny is for siftin' this outrageous outrage to th' bottom, an' then liftin' th' bottom to look under it. Havin' put its hand to th' plow, it will l'ave no stone unturned to probe th' mysthry. Ye seen that felly wid Farwell. He's th' railway detective!"
"Meaning that they're out to round up somebody, eh?" said Casey. "All right, Corney; let 'em go to it."
"In me official capacity," said Mr. Quilty, looking him sternly in the eye, "I hope th' dirty blagyards is caught red-handed and soaked hard for th' shameless and di'bolical atrocity they have perpetuated. For such abandoned miscreants hangin' is too dom ladylike a punishment. I want yez to understand me official sintimints in me official capacity clearly. Yez may quote me exact words if ye feel so disposed."
"In your official capacity," said Casey, "your official sentiments do you great credit."
"I'm glad ye think so," said Mr. Quilty; "for in me private capacity, speakin' widout prejudice to me salary and as a true son iv dear, ould, dirty Dublin to a friend, me private sintimints is these: Th' man that invinted dynymite should have a set iv goold medals th' size iv a compound's dhrivers. But if iver ye mintion me private sintimints to a soul, I'll have yer life!"
CHAPTER XIV
Farwell was by nature obstinate; he was also resourceful, and accustomed to carrying out his instructions by hook or by crook. That was one reason why he was such a valuable man. He accomplished his ends or his employers' ends after some fashion. Therefore, when the almost completed dam was destroyed, he recognized merely a temporary, if expensive, setback. The company could afford to pay for any number of dams; but, in order to push their sales, and, as a first step toward acquiring other properties at a minimum figure, they wanted the water on their lands at once. Very well, they should have it.
Though the dam was practically wrecked, the main canal was intact. Its intake was just above the dam, solidly built of masonry, with sluice gates to control the volume of water. Without the dam it carried a comparatively small stream. With the dam, and the consequent raising of the water level, it would roar full from wall to wall, a river in itself.
Just at its lower lip Farwell began to drive piles at an angle upstream. He sank brush with hundreds of bags of sand, made cribwork filled with whatever rubbish came to his hand, and soon he had the makings of a temporary dam, rude, but effective. It would serve three purposes: It would fill the company's ditches; it would practically empty the ranchers'; and it would render the rebuilding of the permanent dam easier. Farwell was quite satisfied with himself.
Meanwhile, he found time to ride over to Talapus occasionally. His footing there was anomalous, and he felt it. On the one hand he wished the McCraes well and had done all he could for them; on the other he was ruthlessly carrying out a project which would ruin them. Under these circumstances he looked for no more than tolerance. He now owned frankly to himself that he was in love with Sheila. He had made little progress with his wooing, nor did he expect to make more just then. His blunt assertiveness covered a natural shyness where women were concerned, and he had about as much idea of the fine points of the game as a logger has of cabinet-making. Still, he was drawn to her by a desire which he was unable to resist. He had a profound belief in himself and in his capacity for material success; he considered himself an eligible match for any girl, and he relied on Sheila's good sense to realize what he had taken pains to make plain—that while his loyalty to his employers forced him to carry out their instructions, his sympathies were with her and her family. Of this he had given indubitable proof. He had no intention of dropping out of sight, of discontinuing his visits, so long as they were tolerated, of leaving the field clear to another, perhaps to Dunne. With her he bore a white flag always, insisting that between them there was friendly truce.
He was of the opinion that the McCraes, father and son, had no hand in the dynamiting; though he conceded that they could make an excellent guess at the perpetrators. But Farwell thought he could do that himself; he fixed the responsibility on Casey Dunne.
The McCraes did not mention the dam, but Farwell had no hesitation in broaching the subject. He predicted speedy and exemplary punishment for the guilty.
Donald McCrae listened gravely, his face expressionless. Sandy wore a faint, ironic smile which irritated Farwell.
"You don't think so?" asked the engineer pointedly.
"You're doing the talking—I'm not," said Sandy.
Farwell reddened angrily. There was more in the tone than in the words. It implied that talk was Farwell's long suit. Farwell disliked Sandy extremely, but with a self-control which he rarely exercised, forbore to retort. Hot-tempered as he was, he realized that he could not declare his belief in the guilt of any person without some evidence. His smouldering eye measured Sandy, taking him in from head to foot, and rested on the smoky golden tan of a pair of new moccasins which he wore.
Now, Sandy had acquired the moccasin habit in childhood and retained it. It was rarely that he wore boots around the ranch. Farwell, looking at the new moccasins, which were handsomely embroidered with silk thread, noted the straight inner line of the foot, from toe to heel. It was like the foot of an aborigine; undeformed, undeflected from nature's lines by fashionable footgear. By suggestion the moccasin track at the dam occurred to him. He recalled its straight inner line. McCrae's moccasined foot would make just such a track. Was it possible that he, at least, was one of the dynamiters?
Not only possible, Farwell decided, after a moment's reflection, but probable. The elder man he exonerated mentally. The son, young, hostile, possessing unlimited nerve, was just the man for such an enterprise. And if he were concerned in it, and the fact were ascertained what a devil of a mess it would make!
For a moment he was tempted to test his suspicion by some pointed allusion, but thought better of it. And shortly after the two men withdrew, leaving him with Sheila.
"This is a nasty business," said Farwell, after a long pause, reverting to the former topic. "I wouldn't like it—no matter what turns up—to make any difference between us."
"There isn't much difference to make," she reminded him.
"No, I suppose not," he admitted, slightly disconcerted. "We're merely acquaintances. Only"—he hesitated—"only I thought—perhaps—we might be friends."
Which was going very strong—for Farwell. He said it awkwardly, stiffly, because he was quite unaccustomed to such phrase. Sheila smiled to herself in the growing darkness.
"Well, friends if you like. But then we are of different camps—hostile camps."
"But I'm not hostile," said Farwell. "That's nonsense. Business is business, but outside of that it cuts no ice with me."
"Doesn't it?"
"Not with me," he declared stoutly. "Not a bit. You didn't blow up the dam. Even if you had——"
"Even if I had——"
"I wouldn't care," Farwell blurted. "Thank the Lord I'm not narrow-minded."
Sheila laughed. Her estimate of Farwell did not credit him with wideness of outlook. But her reply was prevented by thethud-thudof rapid hoofs. A horse and rider loomed through the dark.
"Hello, Sheila!" the rider called.
"Why, Casey, this is luck!" she exclaimed. Farwell scowled at the evident pleasure in her voice. "Light down. Better put your horse in the stable."
"That you, McCrae?" said Dunne, peering at the glow of Farwell's cigar. "I want to see you about——"
"It's Mr. Farwell," Sheila interjected quickly.
A pause. Casey's voice, smooth, polite, broke it.
"I didn't recognize you, Mr. Farwell. How are you?" He dismounted, dropped his reins, and came upon the veranda. "Lovely night, isn't it? Well, and how is everything going with you?"
"I'm fairly busy," Farwell replied grimly, "thanks to the actions of some persons who imagine themselves unknown."
Casey Dunne lit a cigar and held the match in his hand till the flame touched his fingers. He spoke through the ensuing greater darkness:
"I heard that your dam wasn't holding very well."
"Not very well," Farwell agreed, struggling with his temper. "Perhaps youheardthat it was dynamited?"
"I think I've heard most of the rumours," Dunne responded calmly.
"I have no doubt of that," Farwell observed with meaning.
"Great country for rumours," Casey went on. "Somebody always knows your inmost thoughts. Your intentions are known by others before you know them yourself. You are no exception, Mr. Farwell. The mind readers are busy with you. No action you might take would surprise them. They are quite ready for anything."
"I may surprise these wise people yet," said Farwell. "I suppose they counted on depriving our lands of water by destroying our dam?"
"That's certainly an original way of putting it," said Casey. "Well?"
"Well, they didn't foresee that, though our permanent work is wrecked, and will take time to rebuild, we would put in a temporary wing of logs, brush, and sand which would give us a partial supply."
"No, they didn't foresee that, likely," Casey admitted. "This wing dam of yours is quite an idea. By the way, I'm not getting enough water now, myself. Couldn't you get along with less than you are taking?"
"No," Farwell returned shortly.
"These wise people thought you could or would," said Casey, and, turning to Sheila, asked for her father. A few minutes afterward he strode off in search of him.
Farwell endeavoured to pick up the broken thread of conversation with Sheila. But this proved difficult. She was preoccupied; and he himself found Dunne's concluding words sticking in his memory. Did they hide a sinister meaning? He disliked Dunne heartily, and he was jealous of him besides, without having any definite cause; but he no longer underrated him.
On his way to camp he turned the problem over and over in his mind, but could make nothing of it, unless the words foreshadowed an attempt on the temporary dam. But there seemed to be little chance for the success of such an undertaking. Big acetylenes flared all night by the makeshift structure, and two men with shotguns watched by it. The whole camp was under almost martial law.
Farwell walked down to the river before he retired, to find the watchman very wide awake and a torrent booming through the stone-faced canal intake, to be distributed through a network of ditches upon the company's lands miles away. Farwell, satisfied, instructed the watchmen to keep a bright lookout, and turned in.
Once in the night he awoke with the impression that he had heard thunder, but as the stars were shining he put it down to a dream and went to sleep again. In the morning one of the watchmen reported a distant sound resembling a blast, but he had no idea where it was. Farwell attached no importance to it.
But in the middle of the morning his ditch foreman, Bergin, rode in angry and profane. And his report caused similar manifestations in Farwell.
The main canal and larger ditches had been blown up in half a dozen places, usually where they wound around sidehills, and the released water had wrought hideous damage to the banks, causing landslides, washing thousands of tons of soil away, making it necessary to alter the ditch line altogether or put in fluming where the damage had occurred.
Nor was this all. Some three miles from the camp the main canal crossed a deep coulée. To get the water across, a trestle had been erected and a flume laid on it. The fluming was the largest size, patent-metal stuff, half round, joined with rods, riveted and clinched. To carry the volume of water there were three rows of this laid side by side, cemented into the main canal at the ends. It had been a beautiful and expensive job; and it reproduced finely in advertising matter. It was now a wreck.
Farwell rode out with Bergin to the scene of devastation. Now trestle and fluming lay in bent, rent, and riven ruin at the bottom of the coulée. The canal vomited its contents indecently down the nearest bank. A muddy river flowed down the coulée's bed. And the peculiarly bitter part of the whole affair was that the water, following the course of the coulée, ran back into the river again, whence it was available for use by the ranchers. It was as if the river had never been dammed. What water was diverted by the temporary dam got back to the river by way of the canal and coulée, somewhat muddied, but equally wet, and just as good as ever for irrigation purposes.
Bergin cursed afresh, but Farwell's anger was too bitter and deep for mere profanity. He sat in his saddle scowling at the wreck.
Once more it had been put over on him. He thought he had taken every possible precaution. Of course, ditches might be cut at any time; short of a constant patrol there was no way of preventing that. But this coulée was a thing which any man with eyes in his head and a brain back of them might have seen and thought of. And he had allowed this costly bit of fluming to lie open to destruction when it was the very key to the situation, so far as the ranchers were concerned!
His instructions had been to take the water to bring them to a properly humble frame of mind. It was part of his job to protect his employers' property; that was what he was there for. He had taken ordinary precautions, too, so far as the dam was concerned. But he had entirely overlooked the fact, as obvious as that water runs downhill, that if his canal were cut at the coulée its contents must flow back into the river. Everything was now set back. With this second outrage land sales would stop altogether. It was a sickening jolt. He thought of the questions he would have to answer. He would be asked why he hadn't done this. It would be no answer to point out that he had done that. People were always so cursed wise after the event!
And then he remembered Casey Dunne's words. Dunne had said that he was not getting enough water, had asked for more, had practically given him warning. Now every rancher's ditches were running full, and all he had to show for his work was a horrible mass of wreckage.
Farwell had disliked Dunne at first sight; now he hated him. He would have liked to come to actual grips with him, to break that lean, wiry body with his own tremendous strength, to bruise and batter that quietly mocking face with his great fists.
But the worst of it all was that he had nothing to go on. There was not a shred of evidence to connect Dunne with the destruction of the dam and flume. The detective sent down by the company had looked wise but had found out nothing. The only thing in the nature of a clew was a moccasin track, and that led to young McCrae, whom, for Sheila's sake, he did not wish to involve. He felt that through no fault of his own he had made a mess of everything. The ranchers had won every round. As Africa had been the grave of countless military reputations, so Farwell saw his own repute interred along the Coldstream.
Something had to be done. He was tired of taking unavailing precautions, of sitting passively waiting for attacks. In the nature of things it was impossible to guard adequately works extending over miles of uninhabited country. Guerilla warfare could not be met by regular tactics.
As he scowled down at the muddy torrent an idea began to germinate in his mind. The main thing was to crush these ranchers, to bring them to their knees. After that all would be easy, there would be an end of difficulties. The engineering problems were the least. He had a free hand; he was backed by an enormous corporation which would go the limit. He resolved to fight fire with fire—to give the ranchers a dose of their own medicine.
CHAPTER XV
When Clyde Burnaby entered Wade's office, that busy lawyer was much surprised. "I thought you had gone away," he said as they shook hands. "It beats me how any young woman with the price of an elsewhere can stay in this town in summer."
Clyde laughed as she sat down. She looked deliciously cool, though the mercury was in the nineties, and the dusty cañonlike streets were like ovens. "I was on the point of going," she admitted, "but I don't know where to go. I came for some information on another point, Mr. Wade."
"Yes?" said Wade interrogatively. "We carry a very complete stock of information here." He waved a hand at the formidable rows of half-calf and circuit bindings in his bookcase. "What particular shade, model, or style may I show you? Something seasonable and yet durable? Here is a very attractive and well-bound ten-pound creation covering most of the common or garden varieties of contract, including breach of promise to marry. Nice summer reading. Or, perhaps——"
"Nowdoyou think any sensible man would break such a promise to me?" she laughed.
"You know the answer already," Wade replied. "You are a very good-looking young woman—almost as good-looking as Kitty."
"Model husband," Clyde commented approvingly. "Kitty is a darling. But to come to the point, Mr. Wade, I want some information about Mr. Dunne."
"Casey Dunne?" inquired Wade, with a slight lift of his brows. "What has he been doing? What do you want to know about him?"
"I want to know about his business affairs—or perhaps I should say his business troubles."
"Why?" Wade asked bluntly, eying her with curiosity.
Clyde's colour heightened a little but she met his gaze directly. "I had a letter from him," she replied, "in which, among other things, he referred to his troubles with the railway company that owns land in his district—troubles about water. It seems to be a serious matter."
"How did he happen to write you about it?" asked Wade. "Do you correspond? I beg your pardon. It's none of my business, but Casey isn't given to telling his troubles."
"I think," said Clyde, "I had better tell you how I first met Mr. Dunne." She did so, considerably to Wade's surprise.
"That's just like Casey all through," he commented. "Close as a clam. Never told me about meeting you before. And so he lent you ten dollars! You!" He chuckled at the idea. "Well, later he may have a use for that same ten."
"You really mean that? If money would help him now——"
"It isn't necessary just yet. I'll tell you how matters stand." He did so with brevity and lucidity. "The situation now is that the government leaves the right to water to be determined by the courts. The court won't sit till some time in September. So there you are. Meanwhile the company is trying to take the water and the ranchers are trying to prevent them. So far nobody has been hurt, but I'm afraid, with the bitterness which is sure to develop, there may be serious trouble at any time."
"Mr. Dunne and his friends have not funds for a long legal fight?"
"No. Casey himself is land poor—that is, he has put every dollar he could rake together into land. He will either go broke or make a killing. The others have good ranches, but no money. And they can't raise any on their land, for nobody would lend under these conditions. Their very existence is involved."
"I have plenty of money," said Clyde. "More than I know what to do with; more than I can ever spend, living as I do. I will give you a check now for whatever sum you require to take this case to the very highest court."
"That's a very generous offer," said Wade, "but I can't accept it. It's not merely a case of lack of the sinews of war. It's a case of a huge corporation against a few individuals with as little influence as they have money. You might put up law costs to an enormous extent uselessly. You see, you would be bucking Western Airline. Your respected uncle might do that, but you can't."
Clyde's smooth forehead wrinkled thoughtfully. But she merely said: "If I can do anything—with money or in any other way—for Mr. Dunne and his friends, I'm ready to do it."
"I don't know what you can do just now," said Wade. "I'm going on a vacation for a few weeks. Most of it I intend to spend out in that part of the country. When I return I'll know more about it."
"Is Kitty going, too?" Clyde asked.
"She wants to, but I don't like the idea. It's a little rough there. I'd prefer her to go where she'd be more comfortable."
"She wouldn't enjoy it alone."
"Suppose you keep her company," Wade suggested. "She'd be delighted."
"Suppose," said Clyde, "we both keep you company?"
"Eh!" said Wade.
"Well, why not? We're both sick of dressed-up summer resorts. I want to see this country of Mr. Dunne's. We can rough it if we have to. We'll have a camp or take a house—we'll get along somehow."
"Oh, nonsense!" Wade objected. "You wouldn't like it. It's as hot as perdition in the daytime. You'd be sick of it."
"If we don't like it we can leave. If Kitty will go and doesn't object to me, will you take us both?"
"You'll both go if you want to, whether I say 'no' or not," said Wade. "Is this a put-up job? Have you fixed it with Kitty?"
"Not yet," said Clyde, her eyes twinkling, "but I'm going to."
From Wade's office Clyde went straight to the headquarters of the Hess System, finding its chief in the act of leaving.
Jim Hess was big, carelessly dressed, kindly faced, and the gray of his close-clipped moustache was yellowed by smoke. He sat down and motioned his niece to a seat, his hand mechanically searching for a cigar.
"Well, young lady, what's the trouble?" he asked.
"I want about fifteen minutes of your time, Uncle Jim."
"Easy," Hess commented. As a rule he was sparing of words. "I was afraid you wanted to borrow money." Nevertheless he eyed her shrewdly. She was a great favourite of his, and he devoted much more time to her affairs than she suspected.
Beginning at the beginning, she told him of Casey Dunne, her meeting with him, the water trouble, and the attitude of the Western Airline. Her memory was good and her understanding excellent. Therefore she was able to state the case clearly.
"This Dunne and his friends," Hess commented, "seem to me to be up against it."
"I thought that you might be able to do something to help them."
"What?"
"I didn't know. But you are a railway man. You may have some influence with Mr. York or his directors. Perhaps you might bring influence to bear."
Hess smiled grimly. "Old Nick has more influence with York than I have. He crosses the street when he sees me. I like him about as much as he likes me. He's boss of his own show—his directors cut no ice. Anyway, it's none of my business. I've no excuse for butting in." Her face showed her disappointment. "I'm sorry," said Hess. "I'd do anything I could for you, little girl, or for any one who ever did you a good turn. But you see how it is. I can't ask favours of York and his crowd. If I did they'd only refuse."
"Of course not—if it's that way," Clyde acknowledged. "I didn't know. I thought you might be able to do something or suggest something."
Hess was silent, smoking meditatively, drawing aimless lines on a blotter. "Got much money loose?" he asked suddenly.
"Plenty," Clyde replied. "Why?"
"Well," said Hess slowly, "just at present Western Air looks to me like good buying."
"Does it? I'll buy a little, if you say so."
"Don't say I said so; don't mention my name. Tell your brokers to buy quietly at the market just as much as you can stand. Tell 'em to buy till you countermand their instructions. I'll let you know when to do that. Tell 'em to buy at the present market. If the price breaks keep on buying. And if you go away anywhere let me know where a wire will get you."
"Thanks, Uncle Jim," said Clyde. "You think Western Air is a good investment, then?"
"I didn't say that—I said it was good buying," said Hess. "It's not high now. Some day"—he hesitated—"some day it ought to be worth as much as Hess System—as much as one of our own stocks."
With this prophecy, which he appeared to regret, Jim Hess patted his niece on the shoulder, told her not to worry about other people's troubles, and departed to keep his engagement.
Clyde immediately rang up Mrs. Wade, and, finding her at home, proceeded there at once, to "fix" matters; a thing by no means hard to accomplish, for Kitty Wade found the prospect of a lonesome vacation very unattractive, and was a willing conspirator.
"We'll justmakeHarrison take us," she declared. "We'll have all sorts of a good time, too, riding and driving and fishing and whatever else they do. Won't it be a relief not to have to dress up? And I'll be an ideal chaperon, dear, upon my word."
"Oh, my liking for Mr. Dunne hasn't reached that stage," laughed Clyde, flushing a little, but too wise to pretend density. She had ever found that the best defence against such badinage lay in frankness. "But don't leave me alone with him, Kitty. It might end with his endowing me with his name and worldly goods. 'Mrs. Casey Dunne!' Euphonious, don't you think? I wonder if I should like to hear myself announced in that way?"
Kitty Wade glanced at her narrowly. Clyde's face expressed nothing but laughing amusement.
"Harrison has a high opinion of him," she said. "I believe his father was supposed to be wealthy until after his death, when Mr. Dunne was a boy. And he is very presentable. I think he deserves a great deal of credit."
"So do I," Clyde agreed heartily. "I told Mr. Wade that I was prepared to furnish whatever money was needed for this lawsuit of Mr. Dunne's."
"You did!" exclaimed Mrs. Wade. "Why, Clyde whatever for? How does it concern you?"
And Clyde told her for the first time of her first meeting with Casey Dunne.
"And you never told me!" Kitty Wade commented, as her husband had done. "It's a real romance in real life. But I think you are the most generous girl I ever heard of. If you were in love with him, of course that would explain it. Aren't you, now—a little?"
"I'm not in love with him, Kitty—honestly I'm not," Clyde responded. "I don't know whether I shall ever be or not. He did me a service which I would like to repay. I have more money than I know what to do with. If money would help him over a rough place it was up to me. At least, that's how I looked at it. And as for going out to his country—why, I want to, that's all. I want to see the country which produces that sort of man. He's different from the others, somehow. I don't think he cares whether I have money or not. He wasn't going to recall himself to me till I practically recognized him. I know I'm good-looking and I know he knows it, but I don't think he cares. And he'd never have written me in this world or told me a thing about it himself if I hadn't written him first and asked him to."
"Why, Clyde!" Kitty Wade exclaimed in amazement.
"That's exactly what I did," Clyde asseverated. "If I were in love with him that would be the last thing I'd own up to, wouldn't it? Heavens above! Kitty, I know it's unmaidenly by all the old standards. You're married; you have your husband and your home and your interests. I have none of these things. You can't realize how utterly purposeless and idle and empty my life is. Just killing time. That was well enough a few years ago, and I enjoyed it. But now I'm as old as you are. I want something different from the daily and yearly round of sameness. If I were a man I'd work sixteen hours a day. If I had any special talent I'd cultivate it. But I haven't. I'm just an ordinary rich girl, in danger of physical and mental stagnation—in danger of marrying some equally rich man whom I don't love, in order to provide myself with new interests."
"Casey Dunne is a new interest, I suppose," said Kitty Wade dryly.
"I wish you wouldn't, Kitty," said Clyde.
"Then I won't," said Kitty Wade, "for I think you believe what you say. Which," she added to herself, "is more than I do, young lady."
CHAPTER XVI
On all the ranches along the Coldstream there was water in plenty. The ditches ran brimful. In the fields the soil was dark with grateful moisture; the roots of the grain drank deep, fed full on the stored fertility of ages magically released by the water, and shot suddenly from small, frail plants, apparently lying thinly in the drills, into crowding, lusty growths, vigorous, strong-stemmed, robust, throwing millions of green pennants to the warm winds. Down the length of the fields at narrow intervals trickled little streams like liquid silver wires strung against a background of living emerald. Pullulation was forced, swift, marvellous; one could almost hear the grain grow.
Though everything pointed to a bumper crop, this depended on a continued water supply, and the ranchers took full advantage of the present, for none could tell how long the conditions would endure. As soon as one piece of land had sufficient moisture the water was shifted elsewhere; they allowed no overflow, no waste. This meant long hours, continuous, if not arduous work.
Naturally each ranch's main ditch was the heart of its water supply. From these, smaller ditches carried the supply to the different fields. These represented the arteries. The small streams trickling down the long irrigation marks through the grain and root crops might be likened to veins. To supply these it was necessary to tap the arteries every few yards; and the adjustment of these outlets, as ditches always lower during the heat of the day when suction and evaporation are the greatest and rise in the cooler hours of the night, was a matter of some skill and difficulty.
Dunne and his entire force worked overtime, taking all they could get while they could get it. Glass, the timorous would-be investor, paid him several visits. The first time Casey himself showed him over the ranch, explaining the theory and practice of irrigation, telling him what crops could be grown, what could not be grown, and what might perhaps be grown but as yet had not been proven. Glass absorbed this information like a sponge. Once more he recited his doubts and fears, going over the same ground with wearying detail. Casey, on the second visit, handed him over to Tom McHale, who listened pityingly.
"This here Glass sure needs a guardian or a nursemaid or something," he told Casey afterward. "He don't seem to know which way to string his chips. He makes me that tired I sorter suggests maybe he'd better pray about it; and he says he's done that, too, but don't seem to git no straight answer. So I tells him if the Lord don't know I surely don't. And then he says he'll ask his wife. His wife! Whatever do you think of that? I quit him right there!"
But Glass wandered from ranch to ranch, a harmless bore, relating his perplexities to people too busy to listen. Finally he announced that he had bought land and sent for his family. And on the strength of this began his rounds again, eager for agricultural information.
At this time Casey received a letter from Wade giving the date of his long-promised visit to Coldstream. He added that his wife and Miss Burnaby would accompany him. They would stay, he said, in town, at the hotel. Immediately Casey went into committee with Tom McHale.
"Wade was coming here," he said. "The ladies complicate matters, but we'll have to do the best we can. It's the house that worries me. It's not furnished the way I'd like to have it. And then it's small. I guess we'll have to move out, Tom."
"Sure," McHale agreed at once. "We can bed down anywheres. I'll rig up a couple of bunks in the new tool house. We're pretty well along with the water. I can 'tend to that while you show 'em the country."
Straightway Casey commanded Feng, his Chinaman, to clean and scrub, much to that Celestial's disgust.
"What foh?" he demanded. "Housee plenty clean. Las spling mehiyusclub,hiyuwash,hiyusweep undeh bed. All light now."
"All right for man; no good for woman," Casey explained. "Two lady come stop, Feng."
"Ho!" said Feng, adjusting his mind to a new situation. "You and Tom mally him?"
"No," Casey responded. "One married already. Ladies all same my friends, Feng."
"No good." Feng announced with certainty. "Woman fliend no good. All time makee too much wo'k. All time kick at glub. Mebbyso want blekfust in bed. Mebbyso bling baby. Neveh give Chinaboy a dolla'. No good. S'pose you bling woman fliend me quit. Me go back to China."
"If you quit me now, one dead China boy stop," Casey threatened. He added craftily: "This ladytyeelady. All same mandarin's daughter.Hiyurich!"
"Ho!" said Feng thoughtfully. "Hiyulich, eh? All light. Me clean housee."
But, though he had won this diplomatic victory, Casey was not satisfied. Finally he took his perplexities to Sheila, enlisting her aid in problems of decoration and the like.
"Where does this Miss Burnaby come in?" she asked. "Who is she?"
Casey told her, and she frowned dubiously.
"Seems to me you butted into real society when you went outside, Casey. If she has all that money she's apt to be pernickity. I hate fussy women. Is she pretty?"
"Why—yes, I think so," he admitted. "Oh, yes, she's pretty—no doubt about that. But I don't think she's fussy. You'll like her, Sheila. She doesn't scare or rattle easily. In some ways she reminds me of you."
"Thank you. And how do you know she doesn't scare or rattle?"
He evaded the question. "I don't think she would."
"Why didn't you ever mention her before?"
"Never thought of it. I hadn't the least notion that Mrs. Wade was coming, let alone Miss Burnaby. You see, it puts me up against it. I'll be ever so much obliged if you'll help me out."
"I'll come over and arrange things in the rooms, of course," Sheila acquiesced.
And so, when Casey awaited the coming of the train which bore his guests, it was with the knowledge that his rough-and-tumble, quarters had been made as presentable as possible.
Wade and his party descended, attended by an obsequious porter laden with bags, and in a moment Casey was shaking hands.
"And so this is your country!" said Mrs. Wade eying her surroundings rather dubiously. In her heart she was appalled at the prospect of passing several weeks in such a place.
"Well, some of it isn't mine," he laughed. "I wish it were. This is only the makings, Mrs. Wade. Wait a few years. Now, here's what we do. We have dinner at the hotel. Afterward we drive out to the ranch where you are all to stay."
Wade and his wife protested. They couldn't think of it. Clyde said nothing. Casey appealed to her.
"What do you say Miss Burnaby? Will you brave the discomforts of a shack in the dry belt?"
"I'm in the hands of my friends," she laughed.
"That includes me," said Casey. "Everything's fixed for you. This is my stamping ground, and I'm boss. What I say goes." He introduced Mr. Quilty, who was hovering in the background, and chuckled as that garrulous gentleman proceeded to unwind an apparently endless welcome.
"I like him," Clyde whispered.
"Pure gold," said Casey, and created a diversion. He helped Quilty deposit the bags in the station.
"Thon's a fine gyurrl," said the latter, with a jerk of his thumb toward the platform."
"Right," Casey replied.
"Oh, trust a quiet devil like yourself to pick wan out," said the little station agent. "I was the same meself, whin I was more younger nor what I am now. I fell dead in love with a fine, big gyurrl be th' name iv—iv—dom'd if I don't forget the name iv her, onless it was Mary or Josephine—no, thim came afther. What th' divil are ye laughin' at? Annyways, me an' this gyurrl that I loved that I forget the name iv, was strollin' wan night be moonlight, d'ye see me, now? And we come to where there was a stump risin' maybe two fut clear iv th' ground—ye'll wonder what th' stump had to do wid ut, but listen—and I stopped and put me arrm around her waist—or tried to; for a fine circumferenshus waist she had. Faix, a wan-arrmed man'd've been up against it intirely wid her—and I sez to her, 'Lena'—that was her name, Lena, I remimber now, and she was a Swede—'Lena,' I sez, 'luk at the moon!' 'Ay see him,' she sez. 'Turn yer sweet face a little more to the southeast,' I sez, that bein' to'rd the stump I mintioned before; an' when I had her at the right angle I made a lep up on the stump and kissed her. Faix, and the same was a forced play, me bein' the height I am, and her over six fut. 'I love yez,' I sez; 'say yez love me!'"
"Well, what did she say?" asked Casey, as Mr. Quilty paused for breath.
"She concealed her feelin's," Mr. Quilty replied sadly. "She said, 'Ay tenk ve go home now. Ay don't vant no feller vat have to mek love med a step-ladder!' And afther that, mind ye, what does she do but take up wid another little divil wid no legs at all, havin' lost them under a shuntin' ingin. But his artfulness is such that he gets extra-long imitation wans, like stilts, to do his coortin' on. An', though he looks like a cross bechune a sparrow and a crane and has to carry an oil can when he walks or else creak like a stable door in Janooary, she marries him and keeps him in luxury be takin' in washin' for the camps. And so, ye see, though I had stood on wan stump to kiss her, ivery time he done the likes he had to stand ontwo!"
"Corney," said Casey gravely, "you are an awful liar."
"I will not be insulted by yez," Mr. Quilty retorted with equal gravity. "I will consider the soorce from which ut comes. G'wan out of here, before I do yez injury."
Immediately after dinner Casey brought up his road team, two wiry, slashing chestnuts. The Wades occupied the rear seat. Clyde sat beside Casey. The horses started with a rush that brought a gasp from Mrs. Wade. Clyde involuntarily caught the seat rail.
"It's all right," Casey assured them. "A little fresh, that's all. They know they're going home. It's their way of saying they're glad. You, Dick—you, Doc! Behave, behave!" He had them in hand, checking their impatience to an easy jog, holding them fretting against the bit. "I'll let them out in a mile or two. Do you know horses, Miss Burnaby?"
"A very little. I ride and drive; but I like quiet animals."
"Oh, these are quiet." He smiled back at Mrs. Wade.
"Are they?" that lady commented. "Then I don't want to drive behind wild ones."
A light wind was in their faces, blowing the dust backward. The town vanished suddenly, lost behind swells of brown grasses. The road wound tortuously onward, skirting little groves of cottonwoods, swinging along gulches, sometimes plunging down them and ascending in long grades on the thither side.
Clyde drank in the sweet, thin air eagerly. The city and her everyday life seemed far behind. Heretofore her holidays had been passed in places where pleasure was a business. This was to be different. She would not look for amusement; she would let it come to her. She felt that she was entering a world of which she knew little, peopled by those whose outlook was strange. It seemed, somehow, that this journey was to be fateful—that she had placed herself in the grip of circumstances which moved her without volition. Where and how, she wondered vaguely, would it end?
She glanced at Dunne's profile, shaded by the hat brim tilted over his eyes against the sun; at his buckskin-gloved hands holding the reins against the steady pull of the big chestnuts; downward over the dashboard at their hoofs falling with the forceful impact of hammers and yet rising with the light springiness of an athlete's foot, throwing the miles behind them scornfully. And she was dreamily content.
"You're going to like it," said Dunne suddenly.
"Am I?" she smiled. "How do you know? How did you know?"
"It's largely a guess. I was nervous at first."
"And now?"
"No. This is a plain, dusty trail, the grass is so dry it's almost dead, the scenery is conspicuously absent, the smell of leather and horseflesh isn't especially pleasant—and yet you are not noticing these things. The bigness and the newness of the land have got you, Miss Burnaby. You don't know it and you can't put it into words—I can't myself—but the feeling is there. You are one of us at heart."
"Of 'us'?"
"The people of the new lands—the pioneers, if you choose, the modern colonists, the trail blazers."
"I wonder." The idea was new. She considered it gravely. "My parents were city folks; I have lived in the city all my life. And yet I think I have the feeling you speak of. Only I can't put it into words either."
"If you could you would be the most famous person in the world. The song is there, waiting the singer. It has always been there, waiting, and the singer has never come. We who hear it in our hearts have no voices. Now and then some genius strikes the chord by accident, almost, and loses it. I don't think any one will ever find it completely. But if some one should! Heavens! What a grand harmony it would be."
She glanced at him curiously. He was not looking at her. His eyes were on a little cloud, a white island in a sapphire sea. He seemed to be paying no attention whatever to the road, to his surroundings. But as one of the chestnuts stumbled over a loose stone he lifted him instantly with the reins and administered a sharp word of reproof and a light cut of the whip.
"He didn't mean to stumble," said Clyde.
"He should have meant not to. A horse that isn't tired and is paying attention to business should never stumble on a road. It's the slouchy horse that breaks his kind owner's neck some day. Now I'm going to let them out."
So far as Clyde could observe, he did absolutely nothing. But immediately, as though some subtle current had passed from his hands along the lines, the horses' heads came up, their ears pricked forward, their stride quickened and lengthened, and the measured beat of their hoofs became a quickstep. The horses themselves seemed to exult in the change of pace, filling their great lungs through widened nostrils and expelling the air noisily, shaking their heads, proud of themselves and their work.
Mrs. Wade laid a nervous hand on her husband's arm as the light wagon rattled down a descent. But Clyde sat quietly, her lips slightly parted, her eyes shining as the warm wind poured past in a torrent plucking at vagrant strands of her coppery golden hair.
"Fifteen miles an hour," said Casey. "Like it?"
"It's better than fifty in a car," she replied.
"The difference between God-made and man-made horsepower. Some people can't appreciate it."
"I can. It isn't the end—the pace alone. It's the means to the end."
"Plus the love of human flesh and blood for other flesh and blood. You've got it. I won't keep them at this. Too warm."
It was late afternoon when Chakchak came into view. It appeared suddenly as they swung around the corner of a butte, lying below them, the emerald of its fields drenched with the gold of the sloping sun.
"My kingdom!" said Casey. "Welcome to it!"
Clyde was surprised, in a measure disappointed. She had pictured it differently. With her the word "ranch" had connoted large prairie areas, bald landscapes, herds of cattle, lonely horsemen, buildings more or less ugly, unrelieved by any special surroundings. Here were green fields, trees, water, painted barns, and a neat little house of the bungalow type.
"Why," she exclaimed, "it's a farm!"
"Thank you," he responded; "that's what we're trying to make it. Only out here we call them 'ranches.' Slightly more picturesque term, glorified by fiction, calculated to appeal to the imagination. Gives the impression of a free, breezy life in which the horse does all the work. Invaluable in selling land. But in strict confidence I may say that work on a farm in the East and on a ranch in the West are twins—you can't tell t'other from which."
McHale appeared as they drove up, to relieve Casey of the horses. He was freshly shaven, and dressed with unusual care. Feng, in white jacket and apron, grinned from his quarters, appraising the "hiyulich gal," with an eye to possible dollars.
"Now, this house," Casey explained, as they entered, "belongs to you three. It's yours to have, hold, and occupy for your sole use and benefit while you are here. Is that sufficiently legal, Wade? The Chinaman is yours, too. He takes his orders from you. Mrs. Wade, your room is there. Miss Burnaby, that one is intended for you. But if you like to change about, do so, by all means."
"And which is your room?" Wade asked.
"I'm bunking in one of the other buildings."
"What? We're putting you out of your own house!" Wade exclaimed. "That won't do, Casey, really it won't. We won't let you."
"Of course not," his wife concurred.
"Indeed we won't," said Clyde.
But Casey was firm. He explained that he came and went at all hours, rose early, had to be where he could confer with McHale. He insisted on his fictions, and ended by half convincing them.
Clyde, entering the room he had pointed out as hers, was struck by its absolute cleanness and daintiness. The curtains were tastefully draped, tied with ribbon; there were scarfs on dresser and stand, pin-cushion and pins, little trays for trifles. The bed was made with hospital neatness.
A moment afterward Kitty Wade entered, looking around.
"Yours, too," she said. "No mere bachelor ever did these things, Clyde. The Chinaman is out of the question. It is to find the woman."
"We'll ask Mr. Dunne," said Clyde.
But it was not till after dinner that Kitty Wade did so.
"Miss McCrae was kind enough to fix up the rooms for you," Casey replied.
"Who is Miss McCrae?"
Casey pulled a handful of photographs from a drawer, and shuffled them. He handed one to Mrs. Wade.
"That's Sheila McCrae. I'll drive you over to Talapus, her father's place, one of these days."
Clyde, moved by an interest which she could not understand, bent over Kitty Wade's shoulder. The picture was an enlarged snapshot, but a splendid likeness. Sheila was standing, one hand by her side holding her riding hat, the other, half raised to her hair, as if to arrange it when the shutter had opened. Her dark, keen face with its touch of wistfulness looked full at them.
"What a nice-looking girl!" Kitty Wade exclaimed. "Don't you think so, Clyde?"
Clyde agreed perfunctorily. But, looking into the steady, fearless eyes of the pictured girl, she felt a vague, incomprehensible hostility. Kitty Wade glanced at her quickly, detecting the strained note. Clyde felt the glance, and inwardly resented it. Kitty Wade's eyes were altogether too observant.
CHAPTER XVII
When Clyde awoke next morning she lay for some time in dreamy content. She was deliciously rested. The cold, clear, early morning air pouring in through the open window beneath the partially drawn blind was like an invigorating draught. Outside, beyond the shade of the veranda, she could see sunlight. Somewhere a horse whinnied. In the house she could hear an occasional rattle of dishes. She rose and dressed, humming a song. She felt strangely happy, as though she had attained a long-sought goal. Life that morning seemed to take on a new meaning to her; to be sweeter and cleaner, good in itself, a thing to rejoice in. The very air she breathed seemed charged with the indistinguishable odours of growing things, as it might strike the unspoiled, sensitive nostrils of a child. She felt a child's joy in merely being.
"How well you are looking, Clyde," said Kitty Wade, as she entered the breakfast room.
"Positively blooming," said Wade.
"Positively bloomin' hungry," laughed Clyde. "I haven't had such an appetite since I left boarding school."
"God save all here!" said Casey, from the door. "How did you sleep? No need to ask you ladies, and it doesn't matter about Wade. Hey, you, Feng! You catch breakfast quick!"
During the meal they made plans for the day. In the morning Casey was going to shift the water to his oats; in the afternoon he would drive them over to Talapus. They would have supper there, and return by moonlight. Meanwhile they were to consider the place theirs, to go where and do what they liked.
"I'll help you," Wade offered.
"We'll all help you," said Clyde.
"I can rig Wade out for irrigating," Casey replied, "but not you ladies. It's too muddy a job for you."
"But I should like to see how it is done," said Clyde.
She had her way, and accompanied them to the field, watching the turning of the water down the rows, the careful adjustment of its flow, and the progress of the streams. In spite of her care she became wet and muddy—and enjoyed herself the more.
"I told you so," said Casey. "No sympathy, Miss Burnaby."
"I don't want it. I'm enjoying myself. I'd like to play in the water, to sail sticks down the ditch, and pretend that they were boats."
"Shocking!" he laughed. "But I'd like to play with you."
"Nice pair of kids you are," Wade commented. He was perspiring from unaccustomed exertion. "'Pon my soul, though, I feel the same. To think of me messing away my life in a tenth-story office worrying about other people's business and quarrels! What do you keep in this air, Casey? Old Ponce de Leon's Fountain of Youth?"
"I keep some very fair Scotch in a cupboard at the house," Casey responded. "The water is all right now. Suppose we adjourn."
"I'll go you once," said Wade.
"Where do I come in?" Clyde asked. "I'm thirsty, too."
"Feng shall produce Chakchak fizzes for both of us."
They trooped into the house, thirsty, hungry, and laughing, and Kitty Wade exclaimed at Clyde's dress.
"Thank Heaven I didn't go!" she cried. "Mr. Dunne, you should get a commission from her dressmaker."
"Oh, this will wash. And I'm so beautifully hungry and thirsty."
"Thirsty! With all that water?" said Kitty Wade.
"What's water got to do with real thirst?" her husband demanded. "Come on, Casey; don't muzzle the ox, you know. Produce that Wonderful Remedy from the Land o' Cakes. It was oats we were irrigating, wasn't it? Very appropriate. Here's to Oats—oatmeal, rolled oats, wild oats, and Titus Oates. 'Tak' a wee bit drappie——'"
"Whatever has got into you?" his wife demanded.
"I feel like a pup off a chain," Wade admitted.
After dinner Clyde went to her room to prepare for the drive to Talapus. She inspected her limited wardrobe thoughtfully, finally selecting the plainest and most unpretentious attire in her possession; so that when she took a last look in the mirror she saw a girl wearing a panama hat, a white shirtwaist, and a tweed golf skirt. Kitty Wade, rather more elaborately costumed, eyed her critically.
"Oh, bother!" she said. "This isn't fair. You make me feel all dressed up, but it's too much trouble to change."
"I looked at it the other way—it was too much trouble to dress up," Clyde replied. "I don't suppose one needs to, out here. I'm going to be comfy, anyway."
Kitty Wade forebore comment, but she smiled wisely to herself. Inwardly she reflected that simplicity of dress was Clyde's long suit. With her hair, complexion, and figure the less fussiness there was to distract the eye the better. And Mrs. Wade was inclined to attribute to the fortunate owner of these things a perfect knowledge of this fact.
Mrs. Wade had the front seat, beside Casey, while Clyde sat with Wade. Clyde experienced a distinct feeling of disappointment. Wade was a good companion and a good friend,but—and the "but" was a big one.
She found herself listening to Casey's voice, watching the set of his shoulders, noting the deep, living bronze of his skin. From time to time he turned, including them in the conversation, pointing out things of interest to Wade. But nevertheless she did not enjoy the drive.
"I sent word that we were coming," said Casey, as they sighted the ranch. "That was in the interests of the ladies mostly."
"Of course," Wade agreed. "Women always like people to find them all togged up, as if they never did a day's work in their lives. I catch it from Kitty if I bring any one home with me without due notice. If women only knew how much better they look in ordinary clothes!"
Kitty Wade, turning her head to retort, surprised a quiet, enigmatic smile on Clyde's face. Their eyes met, and keen question and defiant answer leaped across the glance. Kitty Wade let the retort remain unspoken, and contemplated the nigh chestnut's ears, for her husband's last words had given her a clew.
"Oh, Clyde Burnaby, Clyde Burnaby!" she said to herself with a little shake of the head. "Now I know. What a deep finesse! You think that this McCrae girl will put on her best country-maid—or country-made—finery; and you, in your studied simplicity, will show the better by contrast—to the masculine eye, at least. I give you full credit, my dear. Not one woman in a thousand would have thought of it.Ishouldn't, and I know men better than you do. But why did you do it? Are youjealousof a girl you've never seen? And does that mean you care—seriously care—for our pleasant but likely impecunious Mr. Dunne?"
She was still puzzling over this problem when they drove up to the house. Donald McCrae and his wife welcomed them, and he and Casey took the team to the stable. But as the others reached the welcome shade of the veranda Sheila emerged from the house and came forward. At sight of her Kitty Wade smiled to herself.
For Sheila had not donned finery. She was clad in simple white, unrelieved by any touch of colour. Not a ring adorned her slim, brown hands. Her masses of glistening, brown hair were dressed low on her head, giving an effect almost girlish, softening the keenness of her face. She was as composed, as dignified, as essentially ladylike as Clyde herself.
Clyde thanked her gracefully for the arrangement of their rooms. It was very good of her to take such trouble for strangers.
"Oh, but I'm afraid I did that for Casey, and not for the strangers," laughed Sheila. "I hope old Feng didn't undo my work. He thought I was butting in. Anyway, Casey would have seen that you were comfortable, though some of his ideas of domestic arrangements are masculine, to say the least of them." She told the story of the hen, and set them laughing.
Later Casey, having stabled the horses, came up with McCrae. "Well, Sheila, what's the good word?" he asked. "What yarns have you been telling Miss Burnaby?"
"I was telling her of your poultry system."
"Miss McCrae has been suggesting all sorts of things for our amusement," said Clyde; "from a dance to riding lessons."
"I didn't say a word about lessons," Sheila protested.
"But I need them," Clyde admitted. "I never pretend to know what I don't know."
"Sheila can give most men lessons," said Casey. "The only objection I have is that I intended to instruct you myself."
Clyde laughed. "Which offer shall I accept?"
"Casey's," said Sheila promptly. "I won't be selfish. Besides, educational statistics prove that we women imbibe knowledge faster from men than from each other."
Clyde darted a swift glance at her. But Sheila's face told nothing. If the words were intended to bear an added meaning she did not show it.
"Statistics are good for something, at last," said Casey.
"Give her Dolly," said Sheila. "Don't let her coax you into letting her try that old brute, Shiner. He's almost an outlaw."
"Love me, love my horse!"
The quotation seemed careless. Sheila's face told Clyde nothing.
"'Like master, like horse' is more appropriate," said Sheila.
"Oh, I'm not an outlaw—yet," he said, with just the slightest pause before the word.
Slight though it was, Clyde noticed it; noticed, too, the instant shadow on Sheila's face, the quick contraction of her dark brows, the momentary silence, transient but utter. It was as if the chill and gloom of night had suddenly struck the summer's noonday.
But in a moment the conversation was resumed, and became general. Sandy McCrae joined them, silent as usual, but evidently attracted by Clyde. Presently Sheila took Casey to diagnose the case of a favourite, sick collie.
"My heavens, Casey, did you see the kid?" she asked. "I never knew him to look twice at a girl before."
"Every boy has to start some time," he laughed. "She's well worth looking at."
"That's so. Yes, she's very pretty, Casey."
"I'm glad you like her."
It was on the tip of her tongue to disclaim, but she checked herself. "She's different from what I expected. No airs. And shelookssensible. Is she?"
"I think so."
"Yes, I think so, too. She dresses very simply. I was prepared to be reduced to a condition of helpless feminine envy by her clothes. As it is, I feel quite of the same clay."
"You don't need to envy anybody's clothes. That white dress looks good to me. I never saw you looking better."
The rich blood crept up under her tanned cheeks. Such compliments were rare in her life. Casey himself seldom paid them. Frank friendship was very well; but now and then, womanlike, she longed for such current coin of courtesy.
"Really, Casey?"
"Of course," he assured her. "You know how to wear clothes. And you know you look particularly well in white. I've told you so before."
"Once."
"Half a dozen times."
"No—once. I remember it very well, because you don't often notice what I have on. Perhaps that's lucky, too."
"If it's you in the clothes, that's good enough."
"That's just the trouble. You accept me as part of the everyday scenery. I might wear a blanket, for all you'd care."
"I've seen some mighty becoming blanket costumes."
"I'm not aklootch," she flashed. "I'm a white woman, and when I wear a becoming dress I like somebody to tell me so."
"And didn't I just tell you?"
"So you did—and I'll put a ring around the date. It's the first time you've condescended to pay me a compliment in a year. You men are the limit. You take it as a matter of course that a girl should be neat and spick and span. If she wasn't you'd notice it soon enough. It's easy for a girl like this Miss Burnaby. I don't suppose she ever did a day's work or anything useful in her life. She orders her clothes from the best places, and gets them fitted and sent home, and that's all there is to it. But how about me? I've got a hundred things to attend to every day. I've got to make my own clothes, or take a long chance on a mail-order house. That's why, when I do get anything that looks passable, I like it to be noticed."
"That's so," he admitted. "That's natural. I never thought of it, Sheila, and that's the truth. Why didn't you tell me before?"
"Oh, heavens! Casey, I'm sorry I did now. Why do men have to betold? I don't get taken this way often. Women and dogs have to be thankful for small mercies. Only a dog can shove a cold, wet nose into his master's hand and get a pat and a kind word; but a woman——"
She broke off, colouring furiously. The red tide surged over cheeks and brow to the roots of her hair. For the first time, with him, she was afraid of being misunderstood.
But Casey's perceptions, fairly acute where men and affairs were concerned, quite failed to grasp the situation. He saw only that Sheila, ordinarily sensible and dependable, had flown off the handle over something, and he metaphorically threw up his hands helplessly at the vagaries of women.